by Marc Secchia
He was dark, as dark as volcanic glass, and his scales glistened with a sheen peculiar to Dragons, as though his every inch had been oiled and polished by a swarming team of slaves. A decidedly sizeable team. Haunches worthy of two elephants sat side by side, curled into a massive tail which encircled the throne and was tipped with a row of spikes that looked sharp enough to use for shaving. His awesome body rose above the pedestal, resting upon the four-clawed grip of forepaws capable of encircling the torso of one of his Igneous Trolls and crushing out its life in an instant. A long, sinuous neck tilted the great head to examine the newcomers. Even from a hundred yards away his fangs were clearly visible, and the orbs of his eyes glowed with a ghostly fire.
Kevin discovered new meaning in the word ‘intimidating’. Amberthurn filled the cavern like a dark cloud of deadly beauty. But Snatcher’s firm hand upon his shoulder kept him moving forward, when every fibre in his body screamed the opposite.
“How does your science explain Dragons, good outlander?” he whispered.
Kevin cast him a stricken glance. “It is hardly the time for philosophical debates, Snatcher, especially when you have just placed yourself on a Dragon’s menu.”
“On the contrary, I find it sharpens the mind.”
“I am too scared to think straight.”
“Very wise.”
They wound through the massed ranks of Trolls until they found themselves in an open space before Amberthurn’s throne. Glimmering of Dawn perched himself on the Lurk’s shoulder, digging his great talons into the tough hide with no discernable reaction from Snatcher, while Amadorn, Akê-Akê, Zephyr, and the Witch ranged themselves to the fore. Alliathiune and Hunter busied themselves drawing gift after gift out of Snatcher’s holdall, several heavy packs that Zephyr had been carrying, and other smaller items that had been distributed around the company.
“Welcome, travellers, to this humble domain,” said Amberthurn, letting a puff of smoke vent from his great, slit nostrils as he looked them over. “You made very good time from the Old Forest to here. One trusts you enjoyed a safe journey?”
“Safe enough, noble Amberthurn,” replied the Witch. “We saw off a few scavenging Trolls along the way, and defeated the Men of Ramoth at the very doors of your realm.”
“An unfortunate incident.” The Dragon-Magus sounded unsympathetic, even bored. “One chooses not to interfere in matters beyond one’s borders. There is enough to occupy one in a realm which stretches to the very shores of the Endless Ocean, and is comparable to Driadorn in extent.”
Kevin frowned. More like an eighth of Driadorn’s size, if he remembered his geography rightly. This, despite the exaggeration, still made Amberthurn absolute ruler of the largest single realm in the known world. He was not about to press the point, and neither was the Witch.
“Your reputation rises before all creatures as the beauteous dawning of Gärlion in the season of Budding, o mighty Dragon-Magus.”
“One knows his reputation in flawless detail, good Witch,” came the astringent reply. “One is curious as to the diverse nature of the group that stands before him. One wishes to enquire if this is the outlander who fought off the Dark Apprentice at the Sacred Well?”
“Indeed.”
“A remarkable specimen. Human in all but colouring.”
Kevin did not trust himself to formulate any response.
“One understands the nature of the incidents that may have brought you to his Seat of Reckoning. One has heard rumours of this Blight and wishes to penetrate the truth of the matter.”
In quiet, clipped sentences the Witch explained what had led them to seek the source of the Blight at Elliadora’s Well, and how the Dark Apprentice had destroyed one of the Elliarana. She drew no conclusions during her narrative, but the Dragon-Magus had no trouble framing some for himself.
“So … the magic of the Forest fails,” he hissed. “This is unprecedented.”
“Not only unprecedented, but disastrous. Who knows what will happen when the magic breaks down?”
The Dragon’s orbs whirled as he considered the implications. For a time, the slow murmur of his breathing was the only audible sound in the cavern. “Ask what you wish to ask, Witch. One has little patience for formalities.”
Without batting an eyelid, she said, “We seek the Magisoul, noble Amberthurn. We hope to use its power to heal the Forest.”
“In other words,” the Dragon-Magus riposted dryly, “you are desperate. You see no better solution. And before you deny it, one knows the gist of your Council of War’s decision. One is uncharacteristically moved to add that one approves of this course of action.”
Zephyr and the Witch exchanged an astonished glance.
“One further undermines one’s negotiating position by reflecting thus: one has considered this matter at length, to conclude that the Magisoul has the only reasonable chance of success in this grave situation–apart from isolating this Dark Apprentice and wresting the truth from him. One suggests the latter may prove nigh impossible. Nevertheless, if you seek the Magisoul, then one is determined to bend all efforts to locating this disciple.”
Amberthurn flexed his left forepaw meaningfully, giving them a sight of the size and power of his claws. “Do not gasp and be amazed, noble ambassadors of Driadorn. All magical creatures, of which the Dragons are foremost in stature and power, have a vested interest in preserving the sanctity of the Sacred Well and its Elliarana grove. Lest we be diminished, yea, and be deprived of the one strength that enables us to stand against a multitude of foes. Have not the Men of the north always gazed upon our realms with eyes greedy to the plunder? Does the past not offer sufficient account of armies raping our fair land, plundering its treasures, and destroying its creatures? Have not our skills seen us through even when sore beset? Life as we know it would change beyond recognition should the great Forest fall. One brands them fools who dare disagree!”
“Aye,” grunted Akê-Akê.
The Dragon’s head lowered until his eyes loomed large in the Witch’s face. She could appreciate the gleaming whiteness of his great fangs at arm’s length. “Of course, that is not to say that one’s aid comes without price.”
Kevin had to applaud the Witch–she did not flinch, though flame spouted from those slit nostrils during the Dragon’s speech. “You have eloquently framed the nature of our plight, noble Dragon-Magus,” she said. “Name your terms.”
“But what if I desire a priceless gift?”
“You will not,” the Witch said calmly. “But you will name something that has real value for you. Our gifts are but baubles and trinkets in comparison. You have something else in mind.”
“Who do you think you are to tell me what and what not to do?” roared the Dragon-Magus, losing his cool–literally. A flick of Zephyr’s horn neutralised his fire before it incinerated the Witch. As it was, her robe smouldered at the edges.
Her cheeks were paler than ice, but her demeanour was astonishing. “Then accuse me of the lie, noble Amberthurn.”
He drew back, letting his forked tongue flicker in the air between them. “Well is it said of the courage of Witches,” he noted, with nuances of approval, aggravation, and resignation evident in his tone. “Aren’t you lucky you’re right? This is the bargain, noble creatures. There is a particular vault in the depths of Black-Rock Keep that has resisted all efforts to open it. Not even Dragonish magic is equal to this task. If you are able to open the vault, one will grant you knowledge of the Magisoul’s location. If you further grant one the gifts laid before his throne, one will outline for you the dangers that you will face should you seek to wrest it from its hiding-place. For one declares before the Gods of the ages, that when Elliadora hid the Magisoul following her creative work upon that blasted wasteland that preceded the realm of Driadorn, she did hide it as one who wished it never to be recovered by mortal creatures. One would rather face Ozark the Dark and all his minions, than tread the paths which lie before you.”
Sinister words, th
at echoed darkly through the minds of each of the companions and filled them with foreboding.
“We are not without our resources.”
“Indeed, which you proved by ascertaining the cause of the Blight. But one demands the right to a further condition.”
The Witch raised one eyebrow. “Which is …?”
Amberthurn’s head turned until he smiled directly at Kevin–and a more terrible smile it would be impossible to imagine. After a contemplative pause, he said, “The task of opening the vault is for the outlander alone.”
“Why?” Zephyr blurted out. “Why him?”
“He who seeks to become Driadorn’s Champion,” hissed the Dragon-Magus, lowering his voice to a whisper as venomous as a cobra’s kiss, “should first be tested. As one wizard to another, this is the test one has determined.”
“But I never accepted your offer!” Kevin cried out, staring at the Unicorn in alarm. “What’s going on, Zephyr?”
Amberthurn smiled again, puffing acrid smoke around Kevin’s face. “If the Tomalia had bothered to visit the Korahlia-tak-Tarna in his well-travelled recent past, he would have seen your name–Son of the House of Jenkins–inscribed upon the Roll of Initiation. A wizard without rank? A scandal! One merely claims what is one’s right.”
To his eternal surprise and later regret, instead of falling about in a vomitous panic, Kevin found that a white-hot anger had ignited in his belly and swept aside his cool rationality as dry heaped upon a bonfire. His companions raised a babble of protest: Zephyr, the Witch, Alliathiune, they all argued back and forth like a coop full of flustered hens. Something had gone wrong with the process of becoming a wizard, but he was not afraid. He was ready for a fight!
“Let me speak!” he cried, in a shrill and undignified shriek. It was meant to be a roar, but his vocal cords were more attuned to whispering. “Let me speak!”
Silence descended as his companions whirled to gape at him.
Kevin drew a deep, ragged breath, and declared, “Very well, Amberthurn! I accept your test–as one wizard to another.”
A knell like the muted tolling of a church bell made the air around them tremble.
The Dragon-Magus stared down at the little Human for a long moment, taking in the brilliant intensity of his eyes and the high spots of colour on Kevin’s cheeks. He gave the impression of being puzzled by what had just occurred. Whatever he saw as the two stared each other down, it gave the powerful Dragon-Magus pause.
But the Human was not finished yet. He made a peremptory gesture. “Then show me this vault you would have opened, Dragon-Magus. Time is of the essence.”
Amberthurn slithered down from the pedestal as if stung by Kevin’s command, a hundred feet of sleek hard scales and lethal majesty.
He snarled, “Tarry at your peril!”
* * * *
The vault in question was hidden beneath the foundations of Black-Rock Keep, reached by a long spiral staircase secreted in the back corner of a little-used storage room, which was guarded by magical wards keyed to the Dragon-Magus’ magic. Its antechamber had been hacked out of the naked bedrock, and was lit by two torches set in iron sconces upon the walls that gave it the atmosphere of a prison cell. The only viable access to the vault lay through an ostensibly plain wooden door. A door which had defeated Amberthurn’s rage, frustration, Dragon fire, and every artifice for a hundred seasons.
To the left of the door, hung at eye level from two bolts driven into the rock, was a metal plaque bearing the inscription:
O mortal me, o mortal my portal,
Ingenious keys cause one to chortle,
This one is simple but Wizards beware,
Lest it permanently part your hair.
Hunter commented wryly, “Assuming that the said wizard is a creature who actually has a head of hair.”
Amberthurn, who had shape-shifted into a humanoid in order to fit down the narrow staircase to the vault, sniggered and suggested that they examine the inscription more closely. Then he left.
“Are you sure you should be doing this?” Zephyr asked, for the umpteenth time. “It could be a trap.”
“It undoubtedly is,” Kevin replied, fatigue lending ire to his voice. “Why else would Amberthurn set this test? Why did you not tell me that I had been entered on that roll of wizards? I thought I had a choice in the matter!”
“Peace, good outlander. I had nothing to do with the Roll of Initiation–and such a thing has never happened before. The Dragon-Magus must be mistaken. Nevertheless, you accepted his challenge–foolishly.”
“I was merely annoyed. ‘Remarkable specimen’ indeed!”
Truth be told, that much had been sheer adrenalin. He had not stopped trembling since.
“The Dragon-Magus might be listening right now,” added Alliathiune, giving the walls an uncomfortable stare. “I hate it down here. All that rock and earth pressing down from above!”
“Just think of Glimmering of Dawn.”
He, Akê-Akê and Amadorn had remained behind, accepting Amberthurn’s offer of hospitality and supplies for their journey ahead. Where to, they did not yet know, but trusted that it would become clear soon.
“This stone feels curious,” rumbled Snatcher, running his forefinger along a chisel-mark near the door. “It blanks out all magic. My deep sight reflects off the surface. I could not tell if the vault beyond is one pace or a hundred deep.” He tapped with his knuckle. “It sounds solid. Impenetrable.”
“What do you make of the plaque? Zephyr? Alliathiune?”
“An odd inscription indeed, good outlander,” replied the Unicorn, peering over Kevin’s shoulder. “Almost as if it were a purposeful misdirection.”
“Or contained elements of the truth without revealing all.”
Kevin nodded soberly, absorbing Alliathiune’s contribution. “That’s an interesting idea, to be sure, but there is precious little to go on. Mortal my flipping portal! That’s a wizard boasting about the ingenuity of what he has created, while calling it simple just to exacerbate one’s frustration. He’s either a tease, or insane, or both.”
“There is a keyhole.”
“Is that your talent for stating the obvious coming to the fore, good Unicorn?”
Zephyr became ridiculously cross-eyed as he stared down his nose at Alliathiune. “I was wondering, my good green grasshopper, if the Lurk had thought to attempt his deep sight through the keyhole, having therefore an unobstructed view.”
“Of your hindquarters if you keep standing there.”
Kevin clucked impatiently. “Please, I need silence in order to concentrate.”
Zephyr was about to riposte–disparagingly–when the diminutive Dryad thumped the sharp end of her elbow into his flank. “Oops.”
Nevertheless the door was, as Amberthurn had suggested, curiously impervious to the techniques they were prepared to attempt. Snatcher’s deep sight was as useless applied to the keyhole as they had been on the door itself. Short of inserting a key and or trying to pick the lock, which would likely trigger any traps within, there was little that they could do. Kevin had Zephyr setting up a couple of spells to magnify the plaque’s inscription, but until that was ready …
He sat on the floor and put his head into his hands. He must concentrate. Ignore a pounding migraine. Must shut everything out and let the ideas flow. Must remember that comment of Zephyr’s. Wars on the Hills had always proceeded the same way, with the Forest creatures fortifying their homeland against the invading hordes. They had not learned. They were gathering the races at Thaharria-brin-Tomal, sitting back, waiting for the Humans and the Fauns to come to them. What if they did things differently? What if they took the fight to the advancing Humans? How could they effectively resist, slow the advance, buy themselves time to find the Magisoul and return it to Elliadora’s Well?
He disappeared into contemplation.
* * * *
“Drink this.” A slim hand pushed a wooden cup into his grasp.
“Ah … thanks, Alliath
iune. Mmm–Aïssändraught and a hint of something else, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Caraweed,” she smiled. “For your headache.”
“How did you … oh, forget it. Dryad empathy?”
“Have I been repeating myself, perchance?” A self-deprecating smile accompanied these words. “On your feet, good outlander, for the Unicorn has made a discovery.”
“Aha!”
Zephyr–bless his cotton socks, Kevin grinned inanely–had indeed made a discovery, and was immodestly extolling his prowess to Snatcher, who had the slightly detached aspect of one who is pretending to listen without really listening. This was a form of self-preservation against the Unicorn’s garrulity. He had set up a lens using the unique magic of his horn. He had focussed it on the plaque, taking great care not to actually touch it, and within the curling capital letters at the start of each line had discovered a further message, crafted in microscopic lettering on the inner edge of the down stroke where even a close examination might easily overlook it.
When he began to read it, Kevin felt a chill run down his spine. He read:
O noble Wizard, the scrolls and tomes of power this vault contains,
I, Ozark the Dark, have stored up against a diabolical lighttime, and here set the immothal guardians about,
Tenebrous, Freathalous, Anomalous, and Syallous these four,
Lest ye the unprepared dare seek this knowledge and be annihilated.
“Who were those guardians?” he asked Zephyr. “I assume they meant to write ‘immortal’?”
“An understandable but wholly erroneous deduction,” he replied, flashing his most infuriating smirk. “Immothal is an ancient High Owlish world. Tradition has it, good outlander, that the incomparable gift of language was first granted to the Owls, that they who are our foremost teachers and the wisest of all Driadorn’s denizens might codify it and pass on their learning to the other races. All languages upon the Seventy-Seven Hills have High Owlish as their collective root–although there are exceptions. Both Lurks and Unicorns, for example, have private languages whose etymology defies classification. Dryadic remain closest to the old forms. Standard Driadornese, also called Low Owlish by some, is spoken by every one of Driadorn’s inhabitants.”
